Shura's slanted eyes lift and she stares at the powerful blue sky overhead. It confused her, since the last time she had looked at the sky it had been red, not only due to the light of the sun drifting off the horizon but thanks to the crimson flames of that red dragon which tore through her vessel like if it were kindling for a large funeral pyre. Her body was encrusted with salt from the water Black Moth Ocean was known for producing. It was damn near lethal for most fish species, except for those that lived deep in the belly of the black coloured water.

She had her arms and legs spread across the deck of her ship... a small portion of it that survived at least. She had no mast, no sails, not even any oars. A floating raft with warm waters pushing through the cracks and dampened her ratty kimono and the exposed cheeks of her ass. She looked to the left of her, and then the right. She knew these waters, being a pirate and all, and could easily make out the fact she was in the Scardia Ocean. No sign of The Major or her crew. Well, for Laddie, he was never going to turn up again, except as dragon shite. She saw the poor lad go down, and she was surprised she didn't either. As far as she could remember, Laddie was the only one to have met such a gruesome fate.

She half turned, her large voluminous breasts pressing against one another. It felt warm... and she could see the shape of the island ahead of her. Her Beijionese eyes glimmered and then her long eyelashes closed as she began to chuckle. "I survived a dragon attack that claimed my ship and crew... drift to the other side of the world, only to land in 'Shi no Shima', the bloody 'Isle of the Dead'!" she exclaimed, hoarsely with a dry throat. Her usually smooth lips were slightly cracking, and she began to feel thirsty and hungry. She didn't realize how long she had been drifting and that she had a large gash down her left arm and shoulder. Blood and sea water don't mix, nor do wounds and salt. She looked about, finding a scrap of cloth to wrap her wounds as she sat cross legged on the floating driftwood raft. As it was, "The Isle of the Dead", was coming closer; that was how the current was in these waters. "The Isle of the Dead" was named such for obvious reasons, and it was no misnomer. People who go to that tropical island never return.

She sat there, staring at the island in wonder. She had but two of her four swords, and thankfully her sidearm. Still, there was no signs of anything else. She'd hoped she'd find one of the Cayman Rifles on board the ship with her. It was a custom made rifle that fired .50 BMG rounds, and it was effectively as destructive as a broadside cannon. She called them 'Broadsider's' herself, rather than a Cayman, but it would be an efficient sidearm, to say the least on hand.